Ronin
by Blickwinkel
Summary: There is no path for a man without a master. His memories locked away, he finds himself at the onset of change. One hundred years before the 10th tournament, he searches Outworld for his memories, his namesake, and ultimately his fate. Ensemble Cast OC
1. Dead on Arrival

He awoke to the drizzle of heavy rain.

Inside a cavern adorned and etched with unintelligible runes, the naked youth stirred. He gasped as air filled his lungs. Like a corpse, his slumber ended and reality came crashing down. He sat up and stared at the burial chamber. Two matching dragons spewed fire from their mouths, long-fork like tongues slithering from their jaws.

He stared down at himself and covered his pelvis. Not exactly the best way to awake to anything. A dull sensation burned through his mind.

He couldn't remember a lick of information about himself.

Was it like some fairy-tale where the nomad prince finds himself cursed?

"Where am I?"

No one answered. Only the caves walls watched in silence. He shuddered at the draft coming from the entrance of the cave. A dim fire illuminated the burial chamber. Whispers roared through his mind, fragments jumbled and cracked inside his memories.

"I can't remember. This is a joke right? I'm amnesiac? Oh wonderful" he laughed.

The flames flickered. Their heat burned the man at their inviting touch. He muttered and cursed several times while looking to the side. He stared at a mantle of a man with a skull like helmet and a tight fitting set of armor and straps. His body was etched from fire and the blood of hundreds. Underneath him stood a girl and a woman, each wearing regalia while a man laid with his blood spilled.

"What is this?" he said.

A roar of thunder sent a shiver down his spine. He turned his back and saw a smooth red cloak hanging over a rock bed. A cracked mask with a beastly pattern lay at its side. Laid out on an altar, an ornate blade rested. The whispers grew excited, they chattered their teeth. They nudged him to the blade. He examined with a cautious gaze. It felt firm. He ran his fingers over the grooves along the black, cloth wrapped grip.

The blade responded to his touch. He glided it through the air. It was a part of him. Instinctively it was an extension of him. He swung and blocked imaginary phantoms aiming for his life. His breathing grew haggard, sweat dripped from his naked body. He grabbed the sheath and slid his odachi back into its resting place.

The storm swelled outside. Lightning blinded the crags and massive earthen spires along the horizons. He stared out to a long walkway. A metal gate hung overhead. The man quickly grabbed what he imagined were his belongings. He tucked his pants with a large belt bearing the symbol of two daggers and a dragon's head. He strapped the leather bracers around his arms, burnished with a similar design of the buckle. He wrapped the red cloak around his body, it concealed his entire frame. It was more like a robe than a long jacket. He pulled the hood over his face head, covering his messy, long hair. Finally, he strapped the metal mask around his face. He didn't blend in, but he made an impression.

The storm drowned out his thoughts. He stood like a shadow waiting for the end of it. For hours he stood like a statue, noting the various engravings along the walls. The first one grabbed his curiosity. Another one showed two men standing a part from one another. Dual dragon like etchings reflected on each side of the drawing. A large temple towered over them. Another showed the man with the skull mask with ugly creatures, four armed monsters, and men with the bodies of four legged creatures.

He stared at the other etching; it showed a large, dragon like humanoid sitting on a throne with a man similar in shape to the skull killer. The next stone engraving showed the man placing a skull crown over his face while the dragon creature laid on the ground. Blood spilled from his grievous wounds.

"What does this all mean? It's familiar, but I have no idea what it means.

A lever shut someplace. Gears grinded against one another, he heard the cracking of rocks. On the burial chamber rested a long gauntlet with scales like that of a dragon. The voices whispered to him again, a dozen voices begging him to take it. He knew in the back of his mind it wasn't wise. Whatever had been sealed inside that chamber should have stayed in its vault, locked forever.

He examined the gauntlet, scrutinizing its metal, running his glove along the groove. A small mechanism opened and opened its grooves. He jammed his fingers into it. They latched to his fingers, burning his hand with black fire. A slithering series of metal grooves twisted along his arm, latching and connecting to his skin.

He panicked and flailed about while the gauntlet devoured his right arm. More fragments burned and wedged their way into his mind; faces, places, and deserted battlefields raced by him.

"None of this makes sense? Who was I? Elder Gods…this makes no sense."

He waited for another day to pass. The storm and the memories come and go as I sat there. Lost in the darkness, he meditated with a natural ease. Whoever he was, he felt at ease amongst the stone and damp caverns of wherever he was.

Finally, the sky cleared. Outside, a dark haze of blood red and dark purples illuminated the skyline. Stars burned in the heavens, while a large set of spires and building laid miles off in the distance. The vagrant walked towards the entrance, he turned his back to the burial chamber. He cocked his head and saw a strange symbol: It bore that of two horns and small slits embroidered into a faded, destroyed banner.

He turned his back on the forgotten ruins. With no aim in sight, he decided to follow a path to the spires. Instinct alone guided him. For days he ventured closer to the seemingly endless caverns and crags along the various pits filled with blades and decayed corpses. He rested and sat over there corpses, indifferent to their plight. Gates long forgotten or unused met him at every chasm. He heard the roar of a hundred creatures. Some loud, some proud, some humble, it was like a child seeing the world for the first time.

Taking in the sights, the spires become larger and larger. Entering the edge of a forest, the voices that plagued him drew to a hush. Something was not right. Of course not. A dark and ominous forest where the trees stalked you; how could it be normal?

Smoke billowed in the wind. The sharpening of blades sliced across one another. A small creature gargled as something gnawed and gnashed its teeth into it. It wore a white tank top and flowing black pants. It skin was terse and cragged in various ways, spikes adorned from the back of its head. The side of its face was pulled back to the jaw line, revealing a mockery of talon like teeth. Its stubby nose sniffed and whiffed the burning fire. The creature snorted and dug into his meal.

He stopped and watched the monster devour its meal. A deep voice grunted.

"I could smell you the moment you entered the forest, stranger. You have a strange stench. Like death and regret of someone without any life. I'm not poetic. Show yourself or I'll grind your bones with my blades"

He revealed himself to the beast-man. The creature drew closer and retracted its blades. He shook his head and walked back to his dinner.

"Why do you not attack me?"

"I have fresh prey. Besides, your stench is foul and rotten. I don't want to eat flesh that's already sour." He gagged.

He smirked from behind his mask.

"Besides, that mask creeps me out. And look at my face, I'm an ugly beast. But still the strongest out of all Tarkata."

He paused and cocked his head. The Tarkatan waved him over and sliced a piece of the fat rodent and tossed it to him.

"Grind it with your teeth, oni." He grunted.

He pulled back the mask and chewed on the raw meat. His incisors grinded and sliced through the bloated creature's flesh. The Tarkatan narrowed his already thin eyes and pointed his blade at him. The bone tore at the flesh along his side, leaving it blistered and raw. "Damn things. Always leaving an infection." He muttered.

"What are you? You wear the face of an oni yet you are a man? Who are you?"

"I don't know."

The Tarkata pressed his blade against the man's throat. The chewed meat slid down his throat while his pale grey eyes stared back at him. "Are you an assassin, a bounty hunter? Did that tribal chief send you?"

"I do not know who you are. I have no memory of myself."

The Tarkata stared at him and pulled back his blade. He slapped his knee and chortled at the man's reaction.

"You're unafraid. No, not even that. No assassin would come up with some idiotic story like that. An amnesiac? Are you some great prince bent on revenge against Shao Kahn?" he asked.

The ronin folded his arms and scratched the back of his ear.

"Who is Shao Kahn?"

"Those are dangerous words, face stealer." The Tarkata glared.

"Is he important?"

"He's the man who's going to make my people his favored enforcers. Shao Kahn is the glorious Emperor of Outworld, the conqueror of a hundred realms. He is the heart of our world."

"And what are you?"

"Watch your tongue, face stealer. I am Baraka, son of Iscar. I am from one of the tribes of the Tarkata. We are the most powerful and vicious of Outworld's races. No one can withstand our might. Not the tormentors, not the Centaurs, and certainly not the foolish Shokan."

All of the names meant nothing to him. Baraka ranted and raved about the politics and the shifting balance from Shokan to Tarkata, and the feud Kahn manipulated between the Shokan and Centuars. He talked about his father's assassination and how he'd been forced to flee into exile. He vowed to retake his father's tribe, by proving himself in something called Mortal Kombat.

"Mortal Kombat?"

"I almost pity you, how you're not dead in the Living Forest yet is a mystery. Haha, maybe you are dead."

He thought it was a possibility.

"It's a tournament that decides the fate of Outworld. We haven't lost one yet. I will become Outworld's champion and bring the glory of the Tarkata to our Emperor. It's the only way I can restore my tribe. We're too divided though. Infighting and massacres one after another. We're seen as dumb animals." He muttered.

The swordsman finished what remained of the meat. He pulled off his mask and sat staring at the fire.

"I have no idea about the Shokan, the Tarkata, or the Centaurs. If you're people are in disarray, why not find a leader?"

"The last time the horde was united only happened when the Centaurs tried to steal our territory."

"I don't know your people. You sound barbaric, amoral, and rabid. But that is a strength I think"

"We're not savages." He snarled.

"No, you are brutal in your conquest. Outworld seems like it's a chaotic landscape of warring races and usurpers. Why does Shao Kahn allow such disorder in his own realm?"

Baraka scratched his bald head, running his long fingers along his spikes. He narrowed his eyes and tried to come up with an intelligent response. His temporary companion stared into the fire while he waited.

"Kahn is brutal. It's like he feeds off the conflict, the glory, the violence. He's invincible. You're either suicidal or a fool to challenge him. Even I fea..respect him" Baraka muttered.

"The strong are elevated, the weak destroyed. It's not a half-baked philosophy"

"Of course not."

"So why not unite the Tarkata?" The nameless ronin suggested.

Baraka snapped his teeth at him. The glow in his yellow eyes illuminated the darkness. He fumbled for another piece of meat with his wrist blade.

"The Tarkata are filled with mostly idiots."

"Then rule them. Fools will blindly follow one who appears intelligent."

"We're not known for our intelligence. Not me of course, I'm smart. My father always told me that."

The fire began to die. The two sat in silence while the enormous moon shimmered in the sky. They stared at the remains of their meal.

"I'm leaving. Do what you will face stealer. The next time we meet I'll kill you." He said.

"Why is that?"

"You smell wrong. I can't trust someone with a stench like yours. It's unnatural, even to a bastard like me" he snorted.

The swordsman rose from the dirt. He brushed himself up while Baraka watched his cautiously. He pointed to the north of them. A long set of trees with gaping mouths and shifty eyes watched them.

"Don't get close to the trees. They'll eat you. And there are rebels of the various resistances lurking about. They'll mistake you for one of Kahn's soldiers. Stay the to the northeast, that'll take you to a small village called Mani. There a popular stop for travelers coming and going from the capital."

He nodded and bowed to Baraka. The Tarkata sheathed his blades and stretched his arms.

"You're not bad for a smooth-face. But you still smell wrong. Farewell amnesiac. I hope you find what you desire." He laughed.

"Baraka." He called out.

The Tarkata kept walking.

"Unite the tribes. You have the ambition."

He waved his hand to him while vanishing into the forest. He was alone.

The dead watched him traverse through their sanctuary.

They didn't envy a living corpse.


	2. The Old Master

Chapter Two: The Silver Tongue Inn

The dead moaned and whispered for them to join them in the trees. Blood trickled from the trees roots, splashing against the decayed earth. He paid them no head, walking with his hand wrapped around the long sword at all times.

For two days he wandered the forest, listening and taking in the new sights and sounds. He couldn't remember what they were or where they came from, but he felt at peace in the forest of the dead. It disturbed him to a degree. To be so content in a decayed place such is this, it darkened his thoughts.

Why had he told Baraka those encouraging words? Perhaps he was a ruthless killer like the Tarkatan claimed. But was it that? He had no time for such thoughts.

He reached the outskirts of the forest. He turned and bowed to the souls trapped forever in its bramble and roots. The forest's moaning faces faded and returned to their silent state. The air reeked of decayed flesh and the smoke from finely rolled tobacco. He saw a crowd gathered at the entrance of the bustling town.

Dozens of villagers shouted and screamed at the sight in front of him. His curiosity peaked, the nameless swordsman walked towards the crowd. The shouting turned to wailing and screaming the closer he drew. Men clenched their teeth and comforted their wives. Four men wearing armbands and with blindfolds over there head were hanged. Their necks snapped as they dangle lifelessly in the air. A four armed man carrying a parchment of paper unrolled it and bellowed in a booming voice.

"Citizens of Mani. The traitors belonging to the resistance have been hanged. All those who harbor or sympathize with the resistance will suffer a fate such as this. Let this be a reminder to do your part and duty to the Empire. Report all suspicious activity and treasonous persons to your local administrator. That is all. Hail the glory of the eternal Shao Kahn"

Half the crowd roared while the other wept and swore at the emissary. The four armed Shokan shook his head and whispered to his compatriot about just crushing the village. They laughed and talked about visiting the brothels in the capital or the famous bath houses.

The victors celebrated the deaths of their traitors while the losers muttered curses and death upon them.

"This is wrong. Those men were only protecting the village from thieves and deserters. This is what our loyalty is rewarded with" a woman cried.

"But what if they were resistance fighters? They came to the village only a year ago. Besides, it's bad for business if rumor spread about their involvement. Which it will" another argued.

The crowds murmured and debated the issue. The recently departed hung comically in the air. Their feet were cut and the back of their hamstring cut from what looked like an executioner's blade. Still, it wasn't as an awful death. There are far worse ways to die.

Nobody noticed him until he walked out of the crowd. His cloak didn't stick out. The mask drew cautious glares and various gawkers. He slowed his pace and remained silent while turning at each stop. He had no idea where to go. In the center of the square stood a statue of Shao Kahn. He immediately recognized the image. The skull killer. The one who wore the skull of the dragon man; his mind reeled at the sight of the Emperor. Words and images blurred inside his mind. A city burned in front of him, dozens of bodies littered the city's engulfed background.

He saw a sign. It read the Silver Tongue Inn. A silver dragon hung over the sign, it's face chipped and the claws drawn in an aggressive stance. Another four armed creature walked into the bar. She wore a long cape and a silver bracer on each hand. Her muscles shifted and rocked with the shrug of her tone shoulders. She gestured to her escort and whispered in his ear. The guard shook his head and walked away from her.

She stopped. The tall Shokan cocked her head back and stared at the swordsman out of the corner of her eye. Her jaw gaped for a moment. Her top left hand wiped her eyes. The swordsman cocked his head towards her. She ignored the oni and walked into the bustling inn. She recognized him. Or at least acknowledged him.

The Inn beckoned to him. He followed the Shokan into the Inn. A quiet hush filled the room. There only a few people sitting at the bar and the various tables. A slightly overweight man wearing long sleeves and a red sash around his belt drank from a gourd. He swished the liquor like it was his own saliva. The bartender murmured and cringed at the sight of the man's drinking.

"Ahh, still tastes like piss-water. Another, another. I want to drown my sorrows. Or I should say my joys." The jolly drunk roared.

The various patrons paid him no attention. The man's long beard and whisky eyebrows were covered in small grey patches. Crumbs lined and sprinkled along his wise-man's beard. He wasn't such a wise man, just a drunk with too much of a tolerance. The phantom strolled towards the bar and sat the end of it. His cloak concealed the seat in its entirety. He looked like some drape oddly out of place.

The older drunk spilled his drink over his robes. He bellowed and hounded cheerfully at the bartender. The young woman tending it groaned and muttered.

"Please Master Bo'Rai'Cho, you haven't paid your tab in five months. I can't let you just clear us of liquor. You must pay soon. The owner dislikes when you come around." She said.

Bo'Rai'Cho slapped his knee and downed the remains of his gourd. The burly man shouted and raved about the eighth tournament. The patrons warily avoided him while he condemned the tournament's overly violent methods.

"Fighting is about art, the grace and communication between a man and a man, a woman and a woman, or a man and a woman. Especially a man and a woman. You can tell a lot about the relationship of people when they fight with their bodies. I'd know." The old drunk roared.

He stared around the room and looked at the empty surroundings. A few men played a game involving small pebbles leading to a center. A young couple whispered sweet nothings to one another. A group of thuggish soldiers glared at him. Off-duty, they didn't have to deal with the raving of a drunk. Just another stipend, he provided entertainment at least.

The bartender stopped in front of the swordsman. She rubbed her fingers together while averting his gaze. The grinning oni mask sent a shiver down her spine. She coughed and mustered the courage to ask him

"Excuse me, what would you like to order?"

The oni fell silent. He muttered and scratched the back of his head like the Tarkata he met. He figured it was a coping mechanism. The drunk eyed him with a gleam in his eye. He wandered towards the draped mannequin and wrapped his arm around the amnesiac.

"No worries, no worries. He looks like a bad-guy with that face. But I bet he's good. Isn't that right, stranger?"

He pulled off the mask and nodded in agreement. The woman sighed and smiled to the swordsman.

"That's a strange mask sir-oh I meant no disrespect. I've only seen a few people where something like that before." She replied.

"I don't know what to order." He said.

The old master patted the man's shoulder. He grinned with the heavy beard covering his winning smile. He pointed to his gourd and the girl sighed. He loosened his vice grip and slapped the red cloak's back like an old friend.

"What's your name?"

"I can't remember." He said plainly.

"Oh come on, it couldn't have been that bad. Your mother didn't hate you that much."

He scratched his face and winced. His mother Bo'Rai'Cho asked? He couldn't remember. The closest thing he could recall was a woman yelling at him while looked on at three other children. Black, blue, and purple eyes watched him with an air of suspicion. He recalled the skull killer sitting on a throne, much like the one in the engraving. Nothing else came to mind.

"You alright friend? You look like you just saw the end of the world" Bo'Rai'Cho snorted

He lifted his hand and exposed the draconic gauntlet while gripping his hand around the glass. He sniffed the liquor and stared dully at the old drunk. Bo'Rai'Cho watched him with a mischievous grin. He slammed his back again.

"It's good. Burns the soul, kid. Drink up. It's a good day to be alive."

He winced at the taste. It burned his throat while leaving his tongue scalding. He groped for something to douse the flames burning his mouth.

"Water for him. Water for the light weight" Bo'Rai Cho ordered.

The girl rolled her eyes at her disorderly patron. She shuffled for a small glass. Filthy water poured from a bucket into its messy, ruined glass. She passed it down like any other drink, the swordsman grabbed the glass and downed it instantaneously. His lips turned blue from the violent change from hot to cold. The old man laughed at his inexperience and slapped him on the back again.

"Finally. You are alive. See, it burns the soul. It's good for you. SO what's your name friend?" he asked

"I don't know." He muttered.

The drunk narrowed his eyes. He sighed and ruffled the feathers along his shoulder while tying the gourd around his sash. He waved to the girl and snapped his stubby fingers. She slowed to a crawl and turtled towards them at a leisurely pace. Taking her time, heavy thuds rumbled on the stairwell above. The Shokan from before and a man garbed in mummy wraps walked silently side by side. His eyes glowed with an eerie green, the kind out of a soulnado or something akin to a sorcerer's energy. The female Shokan strutted with her silver bracers and cloak covering her broad back. The swordsman coughed and shook his head. Fire erupted in his stomach.

"Ahh some tea will do. We'll get you right up. Indeed, how much this time Mina?" he laughed.

The girl turned her back and fiddled with her fingers. Bo'Rai Cho scowled at her without realizing what was happening. The old man felt three fingers dig into his back while a deep, penetrating voice grated.

"Out drinking again, old fool. You know that you're not welcome in here. Do I have to rip your flesh off just to prove that."

"I'm an old drunk, but not an old fool, Sheeva" he bellowed.

"Leave. You're only alive because of your service to the Empire in the past, Master Bo'Rai Cho." She snarled.

The drunkard's red eyes swelled at the sight of the jailer. He cracked his fingers and raised his fingers to her. The man standing next to her shook his head and pulsated with an ominous glow. The power trickling from his fingertips made him reconsider his position. Besides, he didn't want trouble for Mina and her uncle. They dealt with enough brigands and brutes on a daily basis. Last thing they needed was the enforcer and top jailer of The Emperor labeling them traitors. He patted his drinking partner's back and gestured to him.

"Come. We'll fix some jade tea for ourselves, it cools the belly." He grumbled.

The ronin nodded and grabbed his mask. He ignored the Shokan and the mute man. His eyes were heavy and marked with countless scars along his forehead and face. It was a mockery of battle. His face resembled a long forgotten battlefield, with scars reminders of victories and countless losses.

Something grabbed his back.

"Stop." Sheeva said.

He shrugged his shoulders and turned to the woman. She towered three heads over him. She had black spots and black painted nails. Three fingers and four arms. The Shokan truly were strange creatures. Her crimson eyes widened; she murmured and lifted the cloak to the side. His twisted gauntlet and odachi were exposed to her.

"You don't look like a foot soldier, but you're not one of ours. Where did you get that cloak?" she asked.

He looked to Bo'Rai Cho. The old man narrowed his brow. The jovial laughs vanished; he stared down the ronin and clenched his fist while the enforcer stood by her side. The Shokan examined the fabric and lifted the cloak. His gauntlet and sword were exposed to her.

"Where did you get this?" she repeated.

"I found it." He replied.

She grabbed him by his throat and lifted him into the air. He gripped his throat while she callously studied him. Her other hand reached for the long sword. She unsheathed the blade and pointed it at his throat in tandem. Sweat poured from his brow as he stared down her cleavage. He couldn't help even with her monstrous proportions.

"That cloak is a gift from my people to a select few. Do you see the colors?" she pointed to her own.

She continued with venom spewing from her brown lips.

"I've never seen someone like you receive this. Only ten men in my life have earned this respect with their accomplishments or aiding our people in our time of needs. You're either a robber a killer who stole it. Which is it?"

He inhaled and replied.

"I woke up in a chamber to the south of here. I found it on a rack along with the sword on altar. I was stark naked, would I lie about something that embarrassing."

She barred her teeth. The mute rested his hand on her shoulder and shook his head. The Shokan leered at her companion, but relented. Air enveloped his lungs as he keeled to the ground.

"You're lucky. Ermac says your telling the truth. Don't leave this city. Come to the capitol tomorrow. We'll get the to bottom of this. You can run, I want you too. It'll make it easier for the Emperor's hands to track you down. Then I'll have my fun with you" she cackled.

He grabbed his blade from her and brandished it into its sheath. The wind stopped around it; the victim bowed to the aggressor. She curled her lips and turned her back to him.

"I'll be seeing you soon, ronin."

Ronin, he thought. A good title and name.

"Thank you. Then I'm Ronin" he replied.

They didn't say a word to each other. The drunk and the ronin wandered out of the village. The bodies of traitors slept in the village square. They watched them with solemn eyes; the old master drooped his shoulders and walked ahead of the ronin. The two made no conversation for the hour they travelled.

Finally, they arrived at his sanctuary.

Contrary to his slovenly appearance, the dojo was sparse and almost too cleanly. Not a hint of liquor or disgusting food littered the room. It had various suits of armor, some resembling the gear of a Tarkatan grunt, while others bore the embellished runes and craftsmanship of Shokan war-smiths. One piece of armor resembled the skull-killer in the cave. It's slits stared at the two of them with a sadistic grin.

"An ugly reminder of the past." Bo'Rai Cho sighed.

Ronin explored the man's modest home while keeping his hand rested around his blade. A sweet scent escaped from a partially opened door to the left of them. A woman hummed and tapped her foot to an old Outworld dirge.

"Song. We have a guest. Bring us tea" the old man said.

The girl wear a plain brown apron and dull bronze earrings. She had two diamond markings around her eyes. The ronin took a step back. Song covered her face and averted the masked guest's gaze. She hurried back into the kitchen while the old man grabbed a bamboo staff. He shut the door while watching the silent visitor.

"You shouldn't have said anything to that Shokan."

He turned to the old master and folded his arms.

"What is so special about her?" Ronin asked.

The man shuffled to a small closet. He rummaged through his possessions and cursed his poor cleaning habit. The door slide partially open. A single eye stared from the darkness at the two of them. Ronin cocked his face towards the opening. It slid back to its original position the moment he saw her. Bo'Rai cho fidgeted with excitement at the sight of his treasure.

"Earthrealm rice wine. A rarity and a gift from old friends. And something to drink with new ones." He beamed.

The ronin nodded and removed his cloak. He carefully folded it and placed it to the side of him along with the sheath. His black arm writhed and he gripped his wrist instinctively. Bo'Rai Cho stared at the man's arm and murmured something to himself.

A door opened. Song emerged from the kitchen and brought out a tray filled with two cups and a ladle of tea. The aroma permeated through the room with it's sweet jasmine scent. Even the stoic ronin scooted towards the girl, the scent driving his nose crazy.

She remained silent and bowed to the Master. She didn't speak a single word to the two of them and withdrew from the room.

"Why is she so formal?" Ronin asked.

He gazed at his reflection and contemplated his answer carefully. Bo'Rai Cho rubbed his rotund belly and took a sip from the bottle. He slid the small cup of tea to his drinking companion.

"Song hasn't spoke a word since the last person she killed." The master replied.

Ronin's mind darkened at the old drunk's casual statement. Hadn't spoken? So what was she then?

"You say she killed? Who?"

"Not who, whom. She failed to assassinate me." He revealed.

Ronin reached for his blade. The old man smacked his staff across the boy's hands. He retracted and grumbled while sitting cross legged.

"Relax. I won't kill you. Not like that Shokan planned too" he snorted.

"Who was that woman?"

"Sheeva, the jailer of Kahn's dungeons. She was the former body-guard of Empress Sindel. Too bad she failed in that duty. She was demoted to that position ever since. I'm surprised the Emperor didn't send her to the Deadpool for her embarrassment."

Rain trickled along the rooftop, the steady downpour slithered along the rafters outside. The master sipped and drank with one hand wrapped around the bottle and the other around his fine cup. He bellowed and snickered at the young man, asking him about his cloak, and the ornate blade he carried.

"You just woke up in some cave? Sounds like the old ruins from one of the forgotten realms." He said.

"It's true. I can remember bits and pieces; it's not much though." Ronin replied.

"Maybe it's a sign. Sometimes the past we have aren't what we want them to be." Bo'Rai Cho nodded.

Ronin glanced up at the jolly man. He continued to stare into the jasmine ripples. His face furrowed and contorted while he shifted through his memory. The swordsman couldn't tell what he was thinking.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

"Nothing." The drunk replied.

"I am not familiar with many things it seems, but you are troubled. You spoke of our pasts. Does that girl have something to do with it."

The old man pressed the cane against the man's neck. He drew close and narrowed his eyes. In an instant, a killing intent filled the air. Ronin sweated and kept himself still. It was different from the Shokan. With the old man, it was like staring into the eyes of death itself. The Shokan it was just swagger and brutality.

"Have you ever killed?" Bo'Rai Cho said.

"I'm not sure. Judging by that blade's condition, it has tasted blood. Whether by my hand's or another, I'm not sure."

The instinct retreated. Bo'Rai Cho squatted and folded his arms while staring at the young man. He pointed to him and then himself.

"I was a deserter. I served in Kahn's army when I was about your age"

The two remained silent for several minutes. He had no idea what to say. Neither did the old man. Finally, Ronin coughed. The two faced each other as warriors and nodded to the other.

"You were a soldier?"

Bo'Rai Cho smiled bitterly "Yes."

Twenty questions rushed through his head. He knew nothing of the world around him. Every bit of information would help him. Or atleast he hoped. He needed to remember. It was important to him in ways he couldn't describe.

"Why did you betray your honor?" Ronin blurted.

"Oh. You do have an opinion it seems. That's good boy. It proves you're not just a corpse." He beamed.

"I'm serious. Why did you leave?"

"It's a lot of things."

"I want to know."

He laughed and covered his mouth. Ronin leaned forward and perked his ears up at the man's story.

"You really are like a child waiting to hear an old fool's war stories. Alright then boy, I'll tell you."


	3. Glory and Atonement

Chapter Three: Glory and Atonement

Outworld is my home. I would have it no other way. That's what I thought in my youth. I grew up during the turbulent times when Kahn still competed with pretenders and rival warlords. I remember the sound of his hammer cracking countless heads and their desperate screams.

Cities burned at his feet. When he walked across a battlefield, the souls of countless hundred swelled around him. He was an anchor for them; a twisted, shining beacon for the dead. His dark soul beckoned them and added their strength to his own. I don't want to imagine how many souls reside inside his body. He's a husk in every sense of the word. Driven only by conquest and bloodshed, he cannot understand others. We are all his pawns, his sacrificial lambs.

Countless men and women would die for him. Countless have. And I was one of them.

Growing up in my village, there wasn't much to do. We'd play pretend, search for forgotten treasure, and otherwise waste our youth. The boys in our village were either squat and virulent or lanky and introspective. I was neither. My father was a farmer, nothing out of the ordinary. But his strength was beyond that of normal men. When he plowed the fields, the earth moved for him. He hardly bulged a muscle with tearing into the earth.

Survival was the key to everything. It's different from Earthrealm where even though they've killed and massacred their own in countless wars, they still have a chance. The chance to be free and determine their own fate without facing many obstacles in that path. To be good or to be evil. In Outworld, it seems you can't walk down a trail without meeting a brigand or a potential traitor in your midst.

It didn't take long for the Emperor to unite Outworld under his rule. All of his rivals were slaughtered and consumed by his powerful magic. I remember when he took that woman Sindel as his Empress. Even from a far, when Kahn stood from his balcony in the capitol, she looked miserable. There was haggardness and a bitter scowl on her face at all times.

She died less than a hundred years after their marriage. All that remained was their daughter, Kitana. The girl was hardly seen outside the walls of the palace. The house-wives gossiped that she become a demon and was whisked away. Others said that she became an assassin, molded and trained by Kahn's personal killers.

It's all true to a degree. That girl is a killer. The blood on her hands can never be washed away. She massacred an entire village with her sister about two thousand years ago. Nobody knows why. Kahn is brutal but for the most part efficient in his dealings. I said for the most part. Her cruelty and arrogance knows no bounds.

I used to think that. Kitana must be like her mother, tired and worn down from the years of service to her father and emperor. Any child raised like that would surely break down at some point.

That's not what you came to hear though.

We were attacked by one of the rival warlords. He demanded that we give up our territory and become a province of his domain. The village elder asked what we would receive in return.

"You'll escape with your lives old man." He said.

The elder refused. I was a hundred years old at that point. Young, brash, and hot-headed to boot, I couldn't stand the way that fool disrespected and robbed our homes. My father's strength surged through my body. The warlord mercilessly sliced the elder's head off. It rolled across the ground; his blood stained the earth underneath him. The look of horror and shock on his face made my blood boil.

"Anyone else have any smart ideas? Good."

"Get back to work. We'll be taking the old man's place. You're supporting a good cause." The warlord smirked.

I don't what made me take that step. I was never close to the elder or well liked by him. I was strong. Stronger than most of the boys in the village. When I walked, the earth shook underneath me. I stepped forward with my fist clenched. The warlord glanced at me and narrowed his eyes.

"Get back in line. Or are you a fool as well?"

"We are not slaves for your use warlord." I challenged him.

The warlord raised his bushy brows and curled his yellow teeth. He pointed to two of his guards and barked at them to kill me. I stood my ground. Their movements were sloppy and undisciplined. The elder had been killed by some upstart without much training or experience. He was a brigand leader at best, a cut-throat fool at worse. They drew their swords and lunged at my chest and throat. I inhaled and stamped my feet into the ground.

The earth shook and a tremor exploded underneath them. Wobbling in place, they dropped their blades. I took my chance. I lunged at one with my palm. It cracked against his neck and dislocated his neck from the violent blow. He fell to the ground while his friend stared in disbelief. I motioned for him to attack. He roared towards me with his blade in hand. I evaded to the right and slammed him into the ground. His sword popped in front of me. I roared with bloodlust and thrusted the blade into his heart. I gave it a violent twist, severing the veins and arteries along his heart. The look in that man's eyes still haunted me to this day.

It was power. For the first time in my life, I was no longer a anybody. I was somebody.

The warlord gritted his teeth. I had no idea what was going through his mind. At the time, I didn't care. I only wanted to kill him. The instinct coursing through me, I wondered how many others had felt that primal sensation? In Outworld's history, I was bout one of a thousand with the same tale. One of revenge and personal glory. Did Kahn feed off our savage desires? Our destructive impulses? I still don't know.

The warlord rushed at me and fell to the ground with a single thrust of my palm. He must have been weak or some pretender. There were countless in those days. He wavered in and out of consciousness. His glazed eyes stared into mine while he drooled. He begged for mercy and groveled at my feet.

I showed him none. Thus was the way of Outworld. I twisted his neck clean off and reveled in the power I felt. The people in my village became afraid of me. Even though I had avenged the elder, they saw me as a demon, not Bo'Rai Cho the strong. My own father disowned me for my barbaric treatment of our enemies. I gathered my belongings and never returned to my village.

I heard not long after another warlord, more competent than the last came a year later. I never heard from my father or my neighbors again. At that point in time, it made no difference. I only felt contempt and hatred for their weaknesses. Why should they fear me? I protected them and did what they could not.

I had no direction in life. For years I wandered Outworld honing my skills. I trained with some of the old masters from my youth. Master Su, Master Tojo. Master after so called master. They only taught the mockery of fighting to their students. Or they were harassed and forced to train the warlords controlling their areas. I would be refused by some, and accepted by many. It made no difference in my mind. My power surpassed them in ways they could not understand.

But then I was bested. I met this raggedy old man one day. I'd heard of him from my last master, the one who I had left with a crippled hand. He spoke of his elusiveness and secret fighting techniques. I was two hundred years old, still in the heart of my youth. It was either a fool's lie or perhaps the test I needed. I wasn't satisfied with my skills. No, I wasn't satisfied with the opponents around me. I'd never seen the Shokan or the Tarkata, so my only experience came from fighting other outworlders like myself.

I found this worn down dojo in the high mountains near the Kuatan Canyons. I heard the thunderous roars of beasts and the cracks of whips while I travelled the mountains. For days I searched. The heat soared and the nights froze with each passing cycle. Five days I searched for a man who might have been a phantom. I should have died out there. I hallucinated about the dead, the people I had killed in my conquests. I'd have these night terrors for years, even to this day I still do. They happen rarely, but when they do I realized one thing: you can do nothing for the departed.

Returning to the rickety dojo, I saw a light illuminating it. Had I simply missed the old man? I entered the room and found a fist crack against my face. The force behind it sent me reeling back. I tumbled and rolled to the floor. A man with grey hair and absurdly long eyebrows greeted me. He stood at the entrance of the dojo and stroked his wispy beard. He spoke in an old dialect of Outworld, something akin to Cantonese or Mandarin in Earthrealm.

"What are you looking for, slow footed fool?" he asked.

I rushed at him. My bloodlust increased as I stared down at the small man. I cracked my fingers and launched my palm at his face. I met a steel grip. The old man's robe blocked my hands.

"You are slow fool. Only fight with power and beginner's luck. A rock can be shattered, given the right amount of pressure" he scolded me.

I lunged at the old fool. He weaved in and out like water, his movements were too fluid, too fast for my hard, and stomps. When I shook the earth, he stilled it with his power. The blow was deflected and sent back at me. I fall on my back and stared up at the sky. It began to rain as the old man lunged his fist at my throat. The blood rushed to my head; I was bested by a man half a foot shorter than me. Yet he commanded his body with fluidity and control unlike any I had seen before. He moved like water. Firm yet fluid, shifting and writhing out of reality.

"You should have waited. I was just sleeping. Young people now a day just too damn impatient." He huffed.

"Are you the Old Man of the Mountain?"

He spat to the side and rolled his eyes at my question. He kicked my stomach and walked back to his dojo.

"Foolish old men call me that and four arm brutes down the way as well. Old Man of Mountain. I'm the only person on this cursed place. It keeps me alive"

I bowed my head before him. I hadn't bowed to anyone since I left the village. I had trained with "masters", but they were amateurs and charlatans I realized. This was a man who was an elder, not in any sense of disrespect. He could move mountains if he wanted to.

Like so many have asked me, I asked him.

"Master, teach me your ways. I stand humble at your feet." I pleaded.

"You think power will serve you? Bah, you serve it. And what will you do if I teach you, slow foot? Go and kill weak farmers and villagers? Damn warlords send their "best" and end up slaughtering innocents. You the same as them?" I inquired.

He was the first to test my resolve. Even with the brutality I had unleashed upon my opponents, his words stung more than any fist or kick had in my life. The look of shame and guilt in that man's eyes would become my guilt. And it has become the guilt of my countless failures as well.

I trained with Master Mei for ten years. During that time, a warlord had risen from the ruins of the Dragon King's empire. Nobody had heard of him or seen him up until the first year I trained with Master Wu. He wore the skull of a demon his face. His eyes burned with the flames of the Kuatan volcanos. When he walked, it seemed as if battle would break out at any moment. His prowess was only matched by his strange abilities. Many would be conquerors were simple bandits or trained fighters. He possessed dark magic that no man should ever use. They say when he walked through the battlefields, the souls of the departed flew into his body. He was a beacon for them, adding their strength to his own.

Shao Kahn became known as the Protector of Outworld. While he slaughtered the provincial warlords, he defended the people. He demanded tribute and goods to finance his conquests; the people complied whole heartedly. It was better to serve a warlord who could defend his territories and still show some degree of restraint than a warlord who was merely a pretender or incompetent fool.

Master Wu spent his nights drinking with me. It was the two of us alone during those lonely days. My body slowly hardened from the amount of liquor I drank for ten years straight. My liver must have turned to rot around that time. I'd fight him in a stupor half the time. Slowly over time, I realized what he was doing. He wasn't teaching me his fighting style. No, rather he trained me to develop my own. I had always power and force in my techniques. He made me like water by consuming so much alcohol. He imparted the fluidity of his own style and helped me to develop what would later become Drunken Fist.

I still couldn't beat the old man, but I came close. For those ten years, I didn't forget my desires. I was tired of the countless fights and petty warlords killing people. I was a killer, an unforgiving wanderer, but wasting the resources and lives of the weak peasants brought no honor to them. Razing and pillaging village after village, it was only a matter of time that Outworld would become a barren wasteland.

Wu and I would argue and contest the way of the world. He despised the killings, saying that no warlord was worthy to rule Outworld. He said that the true empire would never be reborn. When I asked him about it, he refused to tell me anything. I pressured him for years, but he never did. I couldn't just stand by and watch the people die. When word reached of the mysterious Shao Kahn's conquest, I found myself drawn to this man. His accomplishments had become urban legends. It was rumored that he had defeated the mighty Gorbak, Prince of the Shokan. Rather than kill him, he spared him and commended his abilities. He offered him the chance to become a general in his growing army. The Shokan had allied with the warlord. Never before had the reclusive people of the Kuatan sided with any. They spent years dividing their time between civil war and political upheaval. The old joke was how long would the new so called "dynasty" last?

His army was looking for worthy recruits from the nearby village. Some young Shokan and fool villagers fought in early form of Mortal Kombat. The Shokan sent a representative to ensure that their numbers were not thinned. It was a coming of age for the young four arms. The first kill signified they were now men in their culture. Wu forbade me to get involve with the bouts. I couldn't say no to it. I was still drawn to the promise of power, something that Wu had warned me about for years. Wu refused to speak to me when I told him I entered the bouts.

"You want to die like dog so be it. Go and never return to this place, Bo'Rai Cho" he said.

I never forgave myself for leaving Master Wu. Had I heeded his words, my fate and his would have been different.

I entered the tournament. The first few rounds were the same kind of conflicts I had faced in the past. Easy and overly eager fools. I did not kill them. Wu had created a conflict in my code. If I showed mercy to my opponents, I'd be considered weak I thought. Another fighter, a black spotted Shokan, tore through his opponents. He killed many during those four days. He was powerful, but he wasted potential lives that could have served the future Emperor in someway. I wanted to kill him.

And I did. The Shokan was like myself ten years ago. He relied on brute force and unpolished techniques. His coordination lacked the kind of hellish training that Wu put me through during our ten years together. When he wobbled and fell to the ground, the scene from my village burned in my mind. I hated wasted resources or people who could bring order to Outworld. He was a reminder of Outworld's nightmarish landscape.

"Mm…mercy. You have proven your strength, mortal" he begged.

I grabbed his neck and tore his head clean off. The spine followed with all of his innards visible from the gaping wound in his neck. Blood seeped from neck while his body writhered for several seconds before collapsing against the ground. I showed his head to the Shokan watching in the crowd. They roared and attempted to jump through the lines. A massive hammer spun through the air and knocked them all back ten feet. I felt a strong hand rest on my shoulder.

He towered three no four heads over me. It was Shao Kahn the Protector. He barked at the Shokan and told them to accept the consequences of entering one of their champions into his tournaments. He commended me on brutality and avenging the villager's sons and daughters. Kahn said he needed soldiers like me to bring unity to Outworld. The way he spoke with such passion and vigor, how could I say no? He could look into your soul and make you dance to his tune and make you believe evil was virtue and good was vice.

I never saw him again. I was promoted on the spot to a small regiment near the Living Forest. In the meantime, Kahn's conquest became known throughout the north. Out of the old empire, a man had risen to slowly unite the people. The old maps showed his territories at the time, year after year, the slowly grew. With each passing year as well, I too changed. The power had begun to go to my head. I killed many in the name of my lord. My powerful and erratic fighting style became feared throughout the southern territories. We were a small regiment of fools and blood-thirsty killers.

Blood was all I thought of, blood was all I saw. We would paint our faces with the blood of our enemies. No mercy for those who defied Shao Kahn, no mercy for those who denied the Protector. I left the regiment after thirty years of service. My fighting style had caught the attention of one of Kahn's first generals. I do not remember the man's name, only that he was shrewd and used glory hounds like me for his political advancement. He wanted me to instruct his soldiers in the way of my fighting style. I refused him. Nobody would be able to replicate my techniques, let alone Master Wu's fighting skills in a few months.

It was a mistake on his part. He challenged me to a fight and demanded my life for this dishonor. It made no difference to me. I slew him like any other fool that got in my way. I gladly took command of his outpost and trained the soldiers in my own way. I did not teach them Drunken Fist. I taught them techniques of strength and defense. Stand like a boulder and crush your enemies. Teaching recruit after recruit, it earned the eyes of a man who wanted to train a new type of fighter I had never seen: assassins. Outworld was ruled in the Golden Age by Onaga. Occasionally some fool would stir up resentment against his eternal rule, but they were crushed by his army. Or the assassins he had trained. It's eerie when I think about it. The parallels between Kahn and Onaga's myths seem like they were planned that way. As if something guided their actions or subtlety nudged them in that direction.

I trained children to become remorseless killers. It began to dawn upon me that amount of carnage I had caused. By this time, five hundred years had passed since I left my home. These could have been children stolen from parents or taken from their homes. And Kahn's once benevolent tyranny had devolved into a systematic brutality that even made me uneasy. I couldn't live with the shame of what I had done. For years I thought I was protecting Outworld, and yet I looked at the results. Countless had fallen to my fists, to my orders. I was no better than the warlords who slaughtered the villages of the north. I had become the shadow of what I hated.

During a patrol, I made it appeared as if I had died. I left behind the body of a man who looked like me and left my regalia and ornaments on his body. He was badly burned and half eaten by a creature lurking in the forests. They could hardly tell the difference. I grew my hair out and returned to Master Wu's dojo. He was gone.

I never saw him again. I still wonder if he is alive or he died alone? Was I one of the only ones who had known him? So many thoughts spun through my mind. I meditated there for days. I found no answer. I forsook my allegiance to Shao Kahn and his growing tyranny. At this point, he united all of Outworld. The Tarkatan Horde soon migrated from the Netherealm and began to terrorize the Wastelands. The Centuar's realm was one of the first added in Mortal Kombat. Outworld changed from a land of rustic beauty into a hideous amalgam of the other worlds. The legends and myths of old were replaced only with the Emperor's truth. Any trace of Onaga or men like Master Wu were buried or forgotten. The men who I had served with slowly died or were killed off. His ranks became filled with Tarkata, Centaurs, and the Shokan. So much violence and so much pointless death.

I had been a fool to serve him. The man I hoped to unite Outworld was a myth. And I had trained some of his soldiers and assassins. My actions paved the way for my techniques to be used against anyone deemed a threat or traitor to the empire. Children trained in those cold chambers throughout their childhood. It was a cult.

Song was one of those children. It happened over ten years ago. She couldn't have been more than twenty years old. I saw a little girl about to slit my throat. She pressed her small dagger into my neck. I instinctively grabbed her and tossed her off me. Song slammed into a wooden wall and gripped her broken arm. She stared at me and waited for death.

I took the blade from her and looked at her arm. A girl no older physically than a ten year old Earthrealm child cried in my arms. I doubt she had been shown any compassion or encouragement throughout her life. I could not make up for the brutality I inflicted upon Outworld. I could only live in the present and atone for my sins.

That is why I despise Shao Kahn. I placed my hopes on Kung Lao five hundred years ago. He beat Shang Tsung and held the title for fifty years. Then Goro came and slew him. Earthrealm is the last of Kahn's great conquests. Seido wishes to attack him, but they are a joke and too small compared to Outworld's army. Make no mistake, Ronin, Shao Kahn must die. I will not accept anything but his death or imprisonment.

As I said, the past is not as important. You cannot change it. You can only acknowledge and live with the burden of your actions.

Nothing can be forgiven, only eternal atonement awaits for killers like us.


End file.
